


Poison

by replicasex



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s06e19 Child's Play, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/replicasex/pseuds/replicasex
Summary: The dream starts the same way it always had.  But now it changes.  First is there, taking control, creating order, like he had before.  It hadn’t been acrimonious when he had taken control.  I was relieved, I know now, to have the burden taken from me.  But now First is accusing me of destroying the cube.  Of poisoning them.  He raises his bionic limb and brings it down across my face –
Kudos: 5





	Poison

Icheb’s Log

The dream begins the same as always. Exiting the maturation chamber prematurely. The confusion. Adult drones dying in droves around me. What had been ordered was in chaos. What had been perfect had been damaged. I emerged first. The terrible, echoing emptiness inside my head. I could still hear the cube, hear it dying in cataracts of voiceless pain, but the we, the us, had deserted me. I still remember my horror at the concept, of just being me, alone in my head.

The dream starts the same way it always had. But now it changes. First is there, taking control, creating order, like he had before. It hadn’t been acrimonious when he had taken control. I was relieved, I know now, to have the burden taken from me. But now First is accusing me of destroying the cube. Of poisoning them. He raises his bionic limb and brings it down across my face –

*

I’m on the floor. It’s the first thing I notice and it seems logical enough an observation that I don’t examine the thought for a moment. I hear the computer bleating.

“Warning: regeneration cycle incomplete.” it says.

I’ve sprawled in front of my alcove. The dream must have interrupted my regeneration cycle. I carefully stand. The last time this happened I had injured in my back. The Borg reinforced my spine to stand at all times. It makes sitting uncomfortable but right now I’m grateful for it. I might have injured myself more seriously without the reinforcement.

“Icheb.” calls a voice from the door. It’s Seven. I realize I’m standing hunched in front of my alcove, the computer repeating its warning. In the time I have spent aboard Voyager, adapting to life as an individual, I have never fully acclimated to the sensation of shame. Seven tells me this is an autonomic reaction beyond our control and that I should ignore it. The burning sensation in my cheeks suggests this is not an adequate protocol.

“Are you injured?” Sevens asks me, walking steadily towards the regeneration alcoves.

“No.” I say. My throat feels raw, like I had been screaming. Maybe I had. Seven presses a finger to the alcove’s interface and calms the computer’s alarm.

“Your cycle was interrupted.” Seven says blandly. I recognize the tactic. The silence encourages conversation. I have not yet adapted to it.

“I … dreamed.” I say. As explanation, it is insufficient. But I am unsure how to categorize the experience. Dreaming itself is nearly alien to me. The younger children had started to dream almost immediately after their disconnection but it had taken me much longer to experience it. I have not found it pleasant.

“About your time aboard the cube or about your recent experiences with your … parents?” Seven asks. I could hear the hostility in her voice when she mentions my parents. It almost feels comforting.

“Neither.” I say. “Or rather, it was about my time aboard the cube but not as it was.”

“Things you remember appeared differently in the dream?” She asks.

“Yes. Things were not as they were.” I say. I hope Seven has an explanation for me. My dreams thus far had only been about events in the past. As near as I can tell, they had been accurate to the historical record. I believe I have even recalled parts of my initial assimilation. That had been not pleasant.

“The Doctor tells me that in humanoids dreaming is often a way to sort through data,” Seven says as she peers into a console, consulting her schedule for today. “Often this manifests in new data being processed in familiar ways. The memory of the cube is familiar to you. It is to be expected that you would use it to assimilate new data.”

“It is inefficient,” I point out. “Not to mention unpleasant. I could not complete my regeneration cycle because of it.” I stare at the alcove. It is ridiculous but at that moment I felt as if it were to blame for my malfunction.

I’m struck, suddenly, by a memory. We immature drones had been insulated from the damage my pathogen released into the cube but we had still been connected to the Collective and to the other drones aboard the ship. Those things that were deemed irrelevant were buffered and purged from our collective memory but things still bled through. Without the Collective in my head I had been remembering bits and pieces of other drones’ lives before assimilation. Seven assures me this is normal.

There had been a man, a human from the edges of the Federation’s space. He had been aboard a transport vessel, a family operation. The Borg had been scouting that area of space for information about the Federation’s activities. The sphere had dropped out of trans-warp and ambushed him. He managed to blind the sphere’s sensors momentarily with a polaron burst. He had managed to get his husband and children into an escape pod.

The Borg were impressed enough at his ingenuity that they had made a point to track down the slow moving pod, to further enhance their perfection. The children had called him “papa” and the man had loved something the humans called cinnamon. His partner made the drones kill him before they reached the children.

Gone, now. They were all gone. Dead. And he –

“Icheb!” Seven says and shakes me. I blink and the converted cargo bay comes back into focus.

“I am malfunctioning,” I say. And it’s true. It’s true.

*

“Psychological distress is a normal reaction to trauma, Seven.” the Doctor says. He and Seven are talking about my malfunction. I’m troubled to realize I don’t mind them speaking about me as if I were not in the room.

“It interrupted his regeneration cycle. And this is not the first time. It is having a deleterious effect on his work.” Seven says. If I didn’t know her better I’d assume that my work is the only thing she cares about. But she cares about me. Me and the other children. It’s not as comforting as I want it to be.

“It would be more surprising if he didn’t have nightmares. The trauma of assimilation alone is enough to destroy the average mind. And considering everything he’s been through recently …” the Doctor says.

“What is a nightmare?” I ask. I had not heard the word before. “I have been dreaming.”

Seven and the Doctor look at each other.

“A nightmare is a kind of dream that primarily consists of negative emotions – typically fear, anguish and shame. An unpleasant kind of dream.” the Doctor says.

“Yes.” I say. I have a word for it now. Order in the chaos. “It was a nightmare.” The Doctor looks at Seven and clears his holographic throat.

“Perhaps Icheb and I can discuss his nightmare in private.” the Doctor looks meaningfully at Seven. “After all, he’s entitled to his own privacy here.”

“Yes,” Seven says. She looks between the Doctor and me. She sounds unsure. “Yes. I understand. We will meet at 1400 hours for nutritional intake, Icheb.” With a nod, she leaves the Sick Bay.

“You know, I have thousands of tactics to politely remove overbearing guardians stored in my holographic matrix. And do you know none of them work nearly as well as simply asking them to leave? Someone at Starfleet really ought to be notified.” The Doctor says. He’s finishing some research up at a console. He looks up at me. “Come into my office here, Icheb.”

I’m relieved to be off the examination table and I step inside the small office.

“I’d offer you a chair but I’m sure that would make you more uncomfortable than you already are.” the Doctor says.

“Sitting is uncomfortable.” I agree and stand squarely in front of him.

“All right, Icheb. Tell me about your nightmare.”

*

My body still feels distant to me sometimes. This is dysphoria, the Doctor tells me, and the disconnect comes from having been part of the Collective and then removed from it. I’m told this is normal and will abate in time. I don’t ask how long.

The body that I inhabit, the whole of me, is perspiring. I had not been aware that speech could cause my body to react in this way but it can. I am shivering.

“And how does that make you feel?” the Doctor asks. It is the 32nd iteration of this question.

“It makes me feel poisonous.” I say. I’ve tried to answer his questions truthfully. Lying is futile if I want the malfunction corrected. I see the Doctor flinch. I’m not sure how much of his emotional response is conscious and what’s algorithmic. He’s meddled in his own code enough that it might be unbidden.

“You are not poisonous, Icheb.” the Doctor says. He’s trying to look me in the eye but I avoid his stares. “What your parents did was not your fault or your responsibility. You did not choose to be made into a weapon or to be assimilated.”

“I am a danger to the other children, to Seven.” I say. It’s been all I could think about since I left Brunal and learned my parents’ purpose for me. “The Borg might discover the source of our cube’s destruction and seek Voyager out to destroy me.”

“The pathogen is suppressed, Icheb. You’ve seen the data yourself. You could no more harm Seven or the children than you could endanger this ship.” the Doctor says. He sounds very sure.

“Then why do I feel this way?” I ask.

The Doctor puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

“It’s going to be alright, Icheb.” he says. I suppose I have to believe him.


End file.
